Mom LOVES ice cream sandwiches. And no, we're not talking about the kind you get from the grocery store, with the chocolate wafers surrounding vanilla ice cream, wrapped in wax paper.
They are literally SANDWICHES. Two pieces of toasted white bread with whatever ice cream we have in the freezer.
I've tried it. I'm not going to lie: they are delicious. They're a throwback to my mom's childhood days, when ice cream cones were harder to find. And the guy selling ice cream in a cart on the side of the road would actually throw a scoop of ice cream into some freshly baked, oh-so-soft pan de sal.
But this is where mom's creative side tends to betray her. I know that I have this side of me too. It's the "let's just use whatever we have" side. Mine tends to manifest itself in smaller ways, like "we ran out of body wash, let's just use a bar of soap" or "I can't find a chip clip, but this clothespin will do." I rarely unleash this side when it comes to food. Scratch that: I NEVER unleash this side when it comes to food.
Anyways, on this particular day, we had mint and chip ice cream in the freezer. As I walked into the kitchen, mom was already filling a bowl with the beautiful chocolate-speckled-sea-foam-green deliciousness, when she turned and said, "Do we have bread?"
I looked and made a face. You know, that face. The one that always precedes one of mom's crazy "experiments."
"Mom, we have bread....but it's sourdough."
"Ok. Toast two pieces for me."
"Did you do it?"
"Yes." I reply. If she doesn't listen to me most of the time, I do not know what surprises me about her not listening this time. So I let it go, wanting to see how this all plays out.
I watch her closely, crafting her sandwich quickly and taking a big bite. Then, she too, is making the face. "It's sour!"
"I know. It's sourdough bread."
"Why didn't you tell me?"